


Consulting Receptionist

by susiephalange



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birth, F/M, Female!Reader - Freeform, Fluff, Gun Violence, Hospitals, Hostage Situations, Male-Female Friendship, Operas, Pregnant Mary, Romance, Scotland Yard, Undercover Sherlock, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-18 11:49:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7314100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiephalange/pseuds/susiephalange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reader and Greg have been going strong for a while, and she has a reputation as a sort of relationship advice guru. Enter Sherlock, who requires you for a case. And catastrophe. Of course, that's just the perks of befriending a Holmes.</p><p>(Formally titled <i>Consulting Girlfriend</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Consulting Girlfriend

**Author's Note:**

> _I love Greg so much so I wrote a fic that mutated and grew in size without maybe half my consent_ : a fic by me

It began when someone blurted out to Anderson that you had banged the boss and won his heart over. Those exact words bled from Donovan's mouth, and forever in Scotland Yard thereon you were no longer the administrator, the gopher, the coffee collector: you were _______ ________, girlfriend of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, and now immune to their complimentary jabs.

You were _______, a tea lover and enthusiast (a passion shared with Triplet and Rogers) and nobody nicked your nice brews anymore.

And, most importantly, you were ________. The best relationship advice giver (according to Nina Lordy from HR, who you accidentally got to split from her abusive ex).

The funny thing was, though, that everyone went out of their way to just speak to you, in the most inconspicuous ways for your words of unadulterated pure wisdom. It had been known around the Yard that if a someone bought you a bribe of exotic tea, or faxed you a sneakily-taken, attractive photo of DI Lestrade, you would take the case. It had been almost a year of this; your locker was jammed with jars for your tea bags, and unsorted loose papers of your hot boyfriend the cop all over the place.

And maybe that was going to end.

"I heard from two people that knew people that you are a good relationship advice-giver," a familiar voice entered the foyer of your administration desk. "So I've come for a consultation."

At this, you glance up. And your face pales.

"Mr - Holmes," you stutter.

Sherlock Holmes was notorious for not caring. Or, maybe caring too much and not telling anyone he felt different. But with him and his cheekbones and tall collar and smirk; you almost felt the shadow of greatness mixed with a smidge of arrogance had swallowed you whole and was going to gargle you out.

"Yes, that's my name. You're _______, the administrator John couldn't help babbling about?" He demands.

Your lip twitches in a sort of smile. Only last fortnight John accompanied Greg to the station (something about seeing crime scene evidence to help write his blog). And before you knew it, Bob was your uncle and John had handed you a nicely crafted teapot for advice to keep the love alive with himself and Mary.

"Well, Mr Holmes," you start, gazing at his mass of midnight curls, "If you'd just read my name badge," you tap it with a green pen, "you'd know it. What can I do you for? You usually forgo me and go straight to the Detective Inspector."

He tilts his head. "Yes, I suppose you're correct. I'm not here for George -,"

"Greg."

"But for you. It's for a case. I'm not so...good at attachments in love like I would like to be, and I was wondering..." He trailed off. For a moment all you could think about was how annoying and egocentric he was, and how Sherlock possibly would rank number one in the _most selfish men_ list. All he talked about was his all-important cases, even now to your face. "...you just need to assess some people for me."

You take a deep breath.

"Mr Holmes," you start, "you do know that I'm not a professional love expert, or dating advisor," you remind him. "I'm a secretary. For Scotland Yard."

He nods. "Ah, yes, you are. You're just a secretary. But it's your instinct that I need. So, are you in?" The consulting detective asks you. "Or are you out?"

You huff. "Mr Holmes, I'm supposed to be working right now -,"

"Nobody will notice. It's not a problem if you're busy with me. So? What is your answer, Miss _________?"

Your eyes drift to the picture on your desk, framed away from the eye of the public. It's a shot of yourself and Greg, on one of the first dates he took you on. The both of you looked so happy; his eyes sparkling in the camera flash light that the waiter snapped, your smile unreserved and bright.

Greg would be okay with this.

Wouldn't he?

"If I accept, will it interfere with my work hours?" You probe.

Sherlock takes a moment to think, and leans his elbows on the tall bench that separates him from you. "No. But it happens late at night."

You hesitate. It's been years since anything exciting or fun has happened to you - and no, having a shooter rush in five months ago and blow up half of your foyer wouldn't count as fun.

"Sure." You agree. "I'm in. Where am I required to be, Mr Holmes?"

The curly haired detective rolls his eyes. "Please, don't call me that, I'm not my brother. As for the details of the case, I've them in this envelope here." Sherlock slid a crisp periwinkle blue package toward you. It's the size of a regular envelope, but this seems to bulge with contents, swollen with possibilities. "My phone number is in the inside. Text it when you are ready to undergo this."

There's a kerfuffle upstairs and for a moment you wonder if that's Greg dealing with press and the precocious serial killer of the month. He'd be swamped with telephone interviews and paperwork until midnight. At least.

He wouldn't notice _much_ if you went gallivanting around for the greater good.

"Gotcha," you beam. "Text you, keep it on the DL from my boss, be a love guru."

Sherlock sighs. "I wouldn't -," but he's interrupted by his phone, screeching a factory-set ringtone from his greatcoat. From his numerous pockets, he withdraws a small phone, and answers just as smoothly - ,"...John, I'm working. Yes, actually working, not pretending this time, I told you I am busy this week, with the -,"

He's silent.

In fact, everything is silent. The phone isn't ringing for a change, and the hubbub upstairs has lowered their din. Even London outside the doors and the sprawling city has held its breath in Sherlock Holmes' pause, waiting.

"On my way. Miss ________, you're required far earlier than I previously expected, we have to go." He hangs the phone up, and shoves the blue envelope to your now-standing chest.

Over your shoulder, you call out to your fellow secretary co-worker, Magellan. "I'm just popping out, you have to man the desk!"

And then you're off.

 

 

 

The evening went on to become something you never expected; Sherlock dragged you into a boutique for a evening dress, and a handed you a wig a shade opposite to your natural colour. Maybe it was then, or the fact he handed you the tickets to an opera soon after, when you felt slightly off. 

"What exactly do you require me for, Mr - Sherlock?" you ask, trying to keep up with his long legs. "I thought I was on as a ... romance consultant. Not a spy."

He clucks. "You're just an accomplice, _______. I need you to observe a couple we will be seated with for the show. They are serial killers, and based on their mood swings, the more casualties. I've you with me to assess what they are going through." Sherlock pauses, and adds in a lower voice, "I'm no good at reading emotions like that."

You nod. "It's okay. Not everyone are."

Sherlock manages a small smile. "Thank you, _______. Gareth is lucky to have you."

"Greg and I are lucky to have each other," you blush, noticing where the two of you have marched yourselves. "Holy shit, this is the seriously posh end of London, Sherlock, what in God's name are we doing here? I can't afford to breathe here, let alone pretend to be your fiancé for this case!" A bead of sweat falls behind your neck. "I don't think I can do this. I'm no silver spoon."

Sherlock takes a deep breath, and turns to you. "Take a deep breath, and ... pretend you're about to go meet the Queen of England." he tells you. "You wouldn't mess around if you were about to see Her Majesty, would you?"

You shake your head.

"Good. Think of the royal family and those babies. Now, here's where we go. Remember, you're Carrie Branson, and I am -,"

"Henry William Reuben," you parrot, and taking a breath, get into character. "Are you ready, my darling? I'm positively _dying_ to see the opera tonight."

 

 

 

Nearly three hours later, and in the observation section, there still was no couple. Every second you focus on the fact that Sherlock keeps pointing out people; snipers, fake opera watchers, security guards turning a blind eye, and you feel your pulse escalating.

After he gestures that there is someone behind you, you realise that speaking is out of the question.

 _We should leave_ , you write on his trouser leg. 

"I know you need to relieve yourself, darling," Sherlock drawls, his voice sickly sweet in a way you'd never expected him to be able to act, "But it's nearly over, and my favorite part is the end. You know that."

You nod. "Yes, dear."

Not five minutes later, though, your phone silently buzzes, your little screen filled with texts from Greg. 

_Where are you?_

_______, Maggie says you went off with Sherlock, where are you?_

_Don't tell me you're at the opera!_

_Oh f-_

_______ text me back as soon as you get this._

_It's a hostage situation-to-be. Get out if you're in. Greg_

"Dear," you tell Sherlock under your breath, "I have to insist on going to the ladies' room."  

But just as you stand, you feel a hard barrel placed against the small of your back. Slowly, you raise your hands in defeat. You know a gun against your body, anywhere. "And I have to insist otherwise, Mrs Sherlock Holmes." 

"Actually, she's Mrs Greg Lestrade," a familiar voice rejoins. _Greg_. "I have the place surrounded. Tell your people to stand down in the next thirty seconds or I will arrest you."

 

  
  


Twenty three hours later, and you're in Greg's bathtub, ears underneath the water, nearly submerged. After writing and giving the statements as to why you were at the almost-siege and not your post at the front desk, you are doing your best to try and forget the feeling of seeing the end so close. 

"Love? Is now a good time to come in?" Greg calls out. He knocks twice. 

"Yeah, come on in," you reply. Your hair is all wet, and drips down your nose. "I'm sorry."

The face of your boyfriend steps into the room. He's out of his tactical gear (not that that isn't a bad look on his body) and into a pair of pajamas you'd picked out for his birthday. You remember thinking they would bring out the brown in his eyes in a better way. Now, they only make his eyes wider, sadder.

"Don't apologise," Greg whispers. He sits beside the tub, head level with yours. "You're just like me, wantin' to fix things the best way you possibly can. I don't blame you for going out with Sherlock and doin' what you did, but ..." He takes a breath.

"I really thought that man was going to shoot me," you breathe. "I felt like he was going to blow me away and I wouldn't have said goodbye or anything to you. I -," you choke. "I love you, Greg."

He nods. "I know, ______. I can't bear the idea of losing you."

"It's almost funny, you know?" You sniffle. "We both live such dangerous lives."

Greg smiles. "Yeah. But I just can't picture m'self as the next Bond, you know?" he nudges your head lightly. A smile spreads. "There she is. My gorgeous girlfriend."

That's when you remember. "Greg?"

He hums. 

"Back in the siege, you said something, about me being married to you, or something?" you prompt. "What was that about? Are we - do you really think you're going to do that one day?"

Greg rests his head on the bath tub ledge. "Of course, _______. I'm going to marry the shit out of you. Do you? Want to -,"

You nod. If you didn't know any better, there's a ripe red blush across your face. "One day. I've had enough excitement for one today, but Gregory Lestrade, I will marry the shit out of you too."

"I love you," He reaches over, and kisses your nose, and goes to rise. "Now, don't stay too long in the tub, consulting girlfriend, fiancée to be, future wife. You'll catch a cold." Greg winks.

"I love you more!" you shout back. 


	2. Consulting Wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a text message in the middle of the night. Battle stations, everyone!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As requested, a follow-up chapter! I hope you all like it!

Slowly, you turn over in the bed. It's been a rough week, and after the night you've just managed through, your head throbs. Beside you, Greg stirs, and turns in his sleep. He doesn't react to the light of your mobile phone bathing your face in unholy white light. It has only been half a minute since you have woken from the vibration, and a second since you realise what the text says.

"Greg! Wake up!" you drop the phone, and shove your husband. "It's happening!"

He frowns, and in the very early morning gloaming, you see his eyes widen in confusion. "England is under attack?" he mumbles, wiping sleep from his eyes. He had as much of it as you did, actually. "Call - call Donovan. She'll fix it."

You sigh. "It's baby Watson, Greg!"

At inches the both of you are up, struggling into yesterday's clothes tossed all over the floor and grabbing the keys. You thank whatever higher power that watches the pair of you, for the pure luck of being near Mary Watson's designated hospital for your honeymoon.

"How fast is a baby delivery, anyway?" Greg mumbles as he jumps into his pants. "Five more minutes can't hurt -,"

You snap. "Greg! This is Mary's time of need! If you want to go back to bed, go! Come in the morning! I'll go and -,"

Greg's face turns into one of mirth. "I know, I'm coming. I've been at my sister in law's birth. Not pretty."  
  


 

 

Twenty minutes and a taxi ride later, the pair of you stumble into the hospital, directed around by the front desk (a downwards-looking woman, with a kind smile) to the correct sector. Outside the door, Mycroft Holmes stands guard, wearing the same suit he wore four days ago, with a purple pocket square. Before you can really wonder if he has his clothes on a rota, you spot Sherlock, and the younger Holmes brother cracks a smile.

"Glad you made it. I don't know what I would have done if I was one minute longer with _him_." Sherlock pointed to his elder brother. "He's been whinging all night."

Mycroft sighed. "We've been here for nigh an hour, Sherlock, don't exaggerate."

Greg chuckled. "Long night?" he asked the politician. Soon, the pair of them were seated in the waiting chairs by the door, and you gravitated your way toward Sherlock.

"While John's baby is coming...I have a proposal," Sherlock whispers to you.

In the months since the last incident, you haven't told Greg, but you and Sherlock would sneak out and about, using sick days and "weekends with family" to solve cases and dig into crime rings. Whilst you were still the receptionist at the 'Yard, you were now someone much different, as of three days ago: a wife to a loving husband.

"I...I don't know, Sherlock. I said I had enough with the last case, you remember that," you breathe. From the corner of your eye, you see Greg explaining what problems they've got at Scotland Yard to Mycroft, illustrating his point with wild hand gestures. "I'm married now, you know. I don't -,"

The taller of the two of you nudged your side. "Don't worry, I was only testing."

There's a shout from the room, and the door opens to reveal John Watson, wearing a pale hairnet hat like a deli worker in downtown London. "It's a girl," he whispers. "I have a - a daughter!" 

He's soon followed by a doctor, dressed in a white gown-coat. "You're the family?" She asks. "We've cleaned the baby up, and the mother's ready for visitors." Her eyes gravitate; to Sherlock, poised tall and proud, you, in your lopsided-buttoned cardigan and sleep-mussed hair, Greg's wild bed hair and jeans and unlaced sneakers, and Mycroft, without a hair out of place. What a sight we were. 

"Are you sure?" you ask John. He can't seem to wipe the euphoria from his face. 

John nods. "Of course, ______. You're Godmother, after all."

Your heart stops and starts all at once. "Re-really? Me? Why me?"

His face contorts into a kind smile. "You're already part of the family, you know, what, being Sherlock's tamer -,"

"Hey!" Sherlock frowns.

"-and being there for Mary and I whenever you could. It's time to make it official."

Mycroft rises from his perch, leaving his umbrella in the seat, just as Greg laughs. "Wow. And Godfather?" he wonders, a twinkle in his tired eye. 

John shakes his head. "Two Godmothers, actually. Harry wanted to be it as well, and...I can't blame her, she's come around. So! Come and see her, everyone - she's so beautiful!"

 

 

 

In the crib, at the side of the bed, sleeps baby Watson. Her parents have not yet decided upon her name, for in their chests they feel such a twang at how they had made something so delicate come to life. She is small, and has strands of hair in similar orange to her Aunt Harry. And her eyes - the same grey-green as her father. Talking around the bedside are her uncles - Uncle Mycroft, watching austere from the corner, Uncle Sherlock, observing Mary's words with a sort of reverence, or maybe dull interest. There's Uncle Greg, who can't take his eyes from little Watson, and her small fists as she rolls around in her blanket.

And then there is her Aunt, and Godmother: ______. One hand on the side of the plastic cot, the other in Mary's hand. Her face is bright, like she has seen God or a planetary system arise into existence, holding on to the two people she values above life as if for her own dear life. 

The hospital is still. It is quiet. All is good.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any requests, find me on Tumblr at @susiephalange, or [@phalangewrites](https://phalangewrites.tumblr.com/request_conditions) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


End file.
